Weathering the Storm
by undercovergoat
Summary: There is no true Sanctuary in a world that belongs to the dead. So when a madman promises safety in the stars, it's difficult to take as anything other than a trap or a pipe dream. Set between "The Angels Take Manhattan" and "The Snowmen (Christmas special)" for Doctor Who. Set after the mid-season 5 finale of the Walking Dead. Diverges from cannon. Happy ending. Complete!
1. The Forsaken World

**Warning****: **Diverges from canon. Possibly unlikely circumstances and decision-making, but that comes with the crossover. I did my best to keep it as close to cannon as possible but it may not be entirely accurate, especially sciencey bits. I should also note that this is written in the present tense, and it's my first time doing so... I'm sort of experimenting with different writing styles. That being said, there may be some mistakes (as much as I've tried to proofread it). If that's the case, please don't hesitate to point those out to me. Lastly, there may be potential **SPOILERS**.

If this isn't your cup of tea, then you may not want to continue reading.

If it is, I hope you enjoy.

* * *

Part 1 of 3:

**The Forsaken World**

* * *

_The Doctor cannot save everyone, nonetheless..._

* * *

Something is very, _very_ wrong with this Earth.

It isn't an immediate observation. Of course, he is aware that this is a parallel universe, courtesy of the crack in reality he'd managed to fly the TARDIS into. He isn't too concerned about it (although the journey through the Void is an experience he'd rather not repeat). He firmly rejects the thought that perhaps he doesn't care because he has nothing left to lose, in his own universe. Either way, he's somewhat confident that he will find his way back. This sort of situation usually has a way of working itself out.

So, the Doctor indulges in his curiosity of how different this universe is from his own.

From his place on the TARDIS, he barely glances at the screen which displays a strangely quiet neighborhood before he rushes to exuberantly swing the doors open, as he usually does. He takes a deep breath of air from his (debatably) favorite planet, no matter _which_ universe he's in, and nearly gags at the air which greets him – thick with pollutants, as expected, yet disturbingly overpowered by the scent of rotting carrion. He immediately pulls the doors to a close, eyes watering as he chokes, while his lungs attempt to expel the horrid air particles that swirl within him.

It is the first sign of things gone awry.

After calming down some, he walks straight to the console and mutters about the possible causes behind such a ghastly odor. The Doctor thinks that there couldn't be much difference between the Earth he knows and this alternate Earth. He fervently begins to push buttons, pull levers, and occasionally hammer certain areas (which earns him more than one spark of discontent from his Old Girl). Just to be thorough, he runs every assessment scan available to the TARDIS, which is quite a few.

He becomes increasingly dismayed as the results appear on-screen.

"No, no, _no_! That _can't_ be right!"

The readings... indicate virtually _no_ signs of life within a twenty-five mile radius, other than six signatures. But it doesn't make _sense_. The scans were taken in what appears to be a fairly normal neighborhood, aside from the abandoned cars and scattered litter. Which is strange, now that the Doctor thinks about it.

Baffled and unwilling to accept the alarming implications, he runs the scans again. And again. _And again_.

Perhaps once more?

His stomach sinks as the same results come back.

"Impossible," he breathes, beginning to pace and tug at his hair. "System's working fine, scans are consistent..."

For a moment he considers that he is mistaken, that he's somehow landed on a planet _similar_ to Earth. He quickly discards the thought after his ship promptly flickers the lights in irritation. So, definitely Earth, circa 2010...

The screen on the console beeps, which draws his attention.

"Right then, make that 2011. So," the Doctor clasps his hands together, and his mind works furiously to solve this disturbing riddle. "What happens in 2011? Come on, _think_."

He considers then discards _so many_ dates and events, people and places – and he closes his eyes to channel his concentration accordingly. He ignores the slowly forming headache, the doubt which blooms in his hearts, and the hopelessness that threatens to drown him. Logically, he knows that it may be impossible to pinpoint which human decision led to this parallel universe, but he is determined to learn what the issue is and find a solution for it. He _must_. He is the Doctor.

But there are simply too many factors to take into consideration.

* * *

_He can't help but try._

* * *

He ventures outside the ship (the offensive smell remains just as strong) to the familiar land of England, and searches for signs of any remaining government organization. In times of crisis, as this appears to be, there are always contingency plans to counter the event in progress. Although he may not agree with who they deem important to protect – focusing their attentions on political figures more than civilians – the Doctor is determined to assist them. So, he makes his first stop at the Torchwood Institute in Cardiff, hoping they may have some indication of what exactly has happened to the world. To his dismay, there is only an abandoned storage area and the same went for all other branches. Resolutely pushing his alarm away, he tries to find the UNIT Central Control in Geneva... only to find nothing. He then draws a startling conclusion: they don't exist in this universe.

Now he is desperate and tries to find any semblance of authority to confer with. Or _anyone_ at all, really.

It isn't long before he comes across a few humans, near the neighborhood he initially materialized in, but his relief for their survival is bittersweet when he is nearly axed in half by a frightened girl with a heart-wrenching resemblance to one Rose Tyler. The panicked group consists of several young men and women, aside from two older gentlemen, who are pointing makeshift weapons at him (he struggles to keep from staring at what seems to be dried blood stains).

They are visibly confused and suspicious when he asks them what is happening, but they warily indulge him anyway. It is then that he learns of the undead and their threat to mankind. To put it mildly, the Doctor is appalled and repulsed by the things he hears, further nauseated by the thought of what most people would have to do to stay alive in such a situation. Although his love for the human race runs deep, he knows that when they are backed into a corner... the results aren't pretty.

When they demand to know who he is and what he wants, the Doctor tells them the truth and urges them to join him on the TARDIS. He nearly breaks down when they immediately refuse – they whisper that he's gone off his rocker, that he's trying to trick them – and they won't even follow him to see his ship. He begs them to reconsider, to give him a chance to _save them_, but the group is unanimous and steadfast in their decision. They are much too tempered by their experiences to accept a stranger's promises of safety. It takes a threat of bodily harm for the Doctor to finally, _reluctantly_ take his leave.

As he continues to travel, the Doctor bears witness to horrifying and tragic things. It is _so much_ worse than he is led to believe.

Entire cities, left abandoned or destroyed or _both_, are either silent or filled with the chilling moans of the undead. He watches their lethargic and unnatural movements, but unable to look their rotting skin or missing limbs for any extended period of time. They truly are moving corpses, and the Doctor finds himself silently mourning for all the lives lost. He wouldn't wish such a cursed existence on anyone, not even his worst enemy.

As for those still living; his brilliant, creative humans... most, if not all, are reduced to something more primal and violent, in order to escape a horrid death in this cruel world. Without law and order to keep them in line, without the comforts of modern technology, and without the certainty of being able to meet their _basic needs_, they resort to savage and cruel measures to ensure their continued survival. Sometimes, he finds people who do things simply because they _can_ and there is no one to stop them. Their morals are all but forgotten, if not abandoned entirely. People of that sort, the Doctor learns, are capable of truly unspeakable and callous acts. They are nothing more than husks of their former selves, which make them ironically, _unnervingly_ similar to the undead. Oftentimes it is worse, for the fact that they are aware of their actions. It's inhuman.

He wants to stop it, to reverse time, but he _knows_ that he can't. Instinctively, the Time Lord senses that he cannot travel back to prevent this, this _sickening_ event because it is a fixed point in time. He cannot even try without the risk of making matters worse, like the time he'd done in his Tenth incarnation. The entire world is rotting, and there is nothing he can do. He is helpless. With all of space and time at his fingertips, _he is helpless_.

It finally sinks in that the Earth he knows and loves truly is a universe away.

And it's suddenly too much to take in. Too much horror. Too much suffering. Too much, _too much_. The Doctor quickly retreats to his ship, defeated, disheartened, and trying to cope with what's happening to his beloved planet and his beloved humans. It doesn't matter that this is a parallel universe; he can't help them, he's _failing_ them, and it breaks his hearts. Absolutely _shatters_ them.

He collapses near the console, overcome by despair. His breath comes in sharp gasps and his eyes burn with tears that never fall. "Why," he hoarsely whispers to himself. "Why can't I do anything?"

He continues mumbling and moves to lean against the console, dimly aware of the lights dimming to a softer, soothing blue. But the Doctor is beyond comfort. He is trapped in a parallel universe that he wishes didn't exist, and such thoughts fill him with _disgust_ and _guilt_ because he is supposed to _save_ people from the awful things he's seen but without an enemy to face, to _fight_, to _erase_ how can he save the humans _from themselves_ and_please_ he can't _do_ this –

The Doctor releases a shaky breath as he attempts to compose himself. He feels dangerously close to madness and there isn't anyone to ground him.

"Okay. Alright. Okay. Okay," he buries his head in his hands. "Stop thinking. _Stop_."

It makes little difference to the storm that rages within, but it does become a bit more bearable. It helps when his dear TARDIS reaches out and provides a warm presence in the back of his mind. The Lonely God feels less so.

For a long moment, he focuses on the simple task of breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. _Exhale_.

He manages to stop trembling – he doesn't remember when he started – and the Doctor attempts to evaluate the situation. Only one thought rises above all others, one that he manages to whisper aloud.

"_The human race is facing extinction_."

He firmly repeats this truth, a mantra that moves him to his feet. He feels the despair returning but, this time, uses it to fuel his resolve. It is a slow process, and he can't tell if hours or days pass. Eventually, he feels a bit more steady, even if he is nowhere near alright. He doesn't think he will ever be the same after this. He isn't ready to face this world but, for now, he has no choice. He _must_ persevere and piece himself back together.

In all his years, the Time Lord has never felt so weary. He sighs and rearranges his bowtie, a nervous tick he isn't sure when he'd adopted, as he chastises himself. It was time to stop wallowing and actually _do_ something. He first addresses his lovely TARDIS quietly. "Glad you're with me, dear," he pats his ship fondly, before he clears his throat. "Right. Now then, what should our plan of action be?"

The answer comes to him more quickly than he anticipates. While the world at large is too far gone, that doesn't necessarily mean there isn't anyone left to take aboard his ship. Even if there is only _one_ person left worth saving... he will scour the Earth to find them and bring them to safety. The next moment has the Doctor in a flurry of movement, once more pushing buttons and pulling levers with more purpose than he ever recalls having. This, at the very least, is what he can do. The console pulses warmly beneath his hands.

He tries to avoid the sort of people who had driven him away in the first place, whenever possible, and is immensely thankful whenever he _does_ meet a group of the good sort. But that is where his gratitude ends.

Much like the first group of survivors, nearly everyone doubts him. They cannot believe that he would offer them sanctuary without any ulterior motives, and ultimately choose to make their own path (usually not without making their hostility known). Those few who miraculously give him a chance, who cautiously follow him back to the TARDIS, are awestruck and overwhelmed by his Old Girl. He smiles as they gasp and cry out in disbelief, uttering the expected "It's bigger on the inside!" without fail. He sees hope alight in their eyes for a moment, before it flickers and dissolves into dark misery.

They explain that they _can't_ stay or they _won't_ go with him, no matter how much they want to, because they need to find someone – whether that someone is a family member, a friend or, rarely, an enemy. Still, he tries to convince them to stay. Some consider, on the condition that he helps them find their Someone, but the Doctor can't make any promises.

When he realizes the futility of trying to persuade them – because he would _never_ force them – he feels helpless and searches for an alternative. If he cannot save them in this way, then he can at least provide them with the supplies to survive a bit longer, to give them a _chance_. He offers them food, new clothes, tools (no weapons, to the disappointment of many), and even a shower. Whatever they happen to need, the TARDIS gladly provides it. He also adds that they may rest peacefully for a night to gather their strength, but it seems their trust doesn't extend that far – one man bluntly tells him that he doesn't trust the Doctor to kidnap/rob/kill him while he's asleep. It is hurtful to hear, but he understands that no one would submit to the vulnerability of unconsciousness under someone they do not trust.

Even so... he will forever cherish their watery smiles, their grateful embraces, or their gruff mutters of thanks as they bid him farewell, even if it is often a painful experience. He doesn't want to send them back to the many dangers outside his ship, but he respects each of their decisions. It is a small comfort that these people will leave the TARDIS more equipped to face the world than when they had arrived. He hopes it will be enough to help them live as long as they can.

And as the Doctor continues to press on, he is unaware of the rumors that begin to spread about the Saint in the Blue Box.


	2. Finding Redemption

Part 2 of 3:

**Finding Redemption**

* * *

_Even in the face of Death, the Doctor will never stop..._

* * *

Determined to save as many as he can, the Doctor continues his search somewhere in the American South, where the TARDIS lands along a set of train tracks surrounded by a forest on either side. He usually makes a point to land near structures, from neighborhoods to warehouses, in order to increase the chance of meeting people. Oddly enough, his ship is frustratingly stubborn about being in the middle of a forest. The Doctor knows that his ship wouldn't have done without a reason, so he trusts in her judgment and takes care to be _that_ much more wary of his surroundings.

As it happens, after venturing a short distance away from the TARDIS, he stumbles across a young boy wearing a Stetson (this only serves to trigger memories best left alone). From what he can see, the child doesn't seem to have any injuries... but the Time Lord finds it troubling that the he's alone. In all the groups of people he's come across, there had been _perhaps_ one or two children but _never_ unaccompanied by an adult. He tries not to think about the implications; about what could have happened to this child's guardian.

He hopes for the best and prepares for the worst.

A fallen branch snaps beneath his foot as he approaches, and it is enough to jerk the boy into motion.

The Doctor freezes as the barrel of a gun is swiftly pointed at his head. His senses are suddenly heightened as adrenaline surges through him, and he is hyper aware of _everything_.

"Stay back," the child, _just a child_, speaks steadily.

Anguished, the Doctor slowly brings his arms up in the universal sign of surrender and peace. He silently despairs at the knowledge that the boy is remarkably accustomed to handling the weapon, and tries not to think about whether the boy has used it before. He takes a deep breath and forces himself to focus on a procedure he's become _much_ too familiar with: talking down an edgy, possibly trigger-happy human. He only wishes it isn't a child – barely an infant in the eyes of a Time Lord. "It's alright, see?" He displays his empty hands, taking care to speak slowly and calmly. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm here to help. I'm a _friend_."

The child remains quiet and distrustful, giving him an unsettling blank look, and the Doctor isn't sure what to do. Everyone he's stumbled across thus far has always asked questions or– or _something_. That makes it _easier_; he doesn't know what to do with silence, doesn't _like_ silence, absolutely _loathes silence_. He desperately tries to gather his thoughts, fidgeting in place, but his nerves are getting the better of him. The heat seems to become more oppressive, clinging to his clothing as if attempting to drag him down. The song of the cicadas steadily seem to grow to deafening volumes, drowning out his thoughts. Even the trees appear to shift a bit closer, attempting to trap him with the child.

He breathes shakily, willing himself to _calm down_. He _must_.

Meeting the boy's jaded gaze, the Doctor begins. "Look, I'm –"

Suddenly, something cold and cylindrical presses against the base of his skull, effectively cutting off his rehearsed plea. He immediately recognizes the foreign object for what it is – a despicable firearm – and tenses immediately, disliking the helplessness that washes over him. He isn't in many situations like this, thankfully, but it _does_ happen on occasion... though never quite like this.

It's enough to have him thinking about the fact that he can't regenerate, can't _come back_, _can't start over_. Should the stranger decide to pull the trigger, he knows that it will be the end. He feels closer to death than ever before, closer to everlasting darkness, closer to what he's been running from in _all his incarnations_–

He stops thinking. Breathes.

"Don't move."

The gruff voice speaks with a menacing Southern drawl. Bit by bit, with calculated steps, the stranger comes around to point the weapon directly between the Doctor's eyes and simultaneously places himself in front of the boy (the protective – or _possessive_ – behavior doesn't go unnoticed). The nervous Time Lord shifts uneasily, eyeing the _weapon_ more than anything, and distantly notes the stranger's grisly demeanor – further compounded by the cold, nearly murderous gaze sent his way. He decides that this is very _not good_.

The man tosses a brief glance backwards at the younger human and, for a moment, the Doctor is concerned for the child's safety. Then,

"Go."

With a slight tilt of the head, the boy lowers his weapon and swiftly moves in an arc around them before he darts into the forest. As soon as the boy disappears, the man releases a breath that would have gone unnoticed by any other human. At this point, it isn't difficult to piece things together; the Time Lord silently calculates the odds that these two humans know each other. If the way they act is any indication, it seems that they trust each other immensely... perhaps they are of relation. Suddenly, the stranger's cold glare seems _that_ much more protective.

Such an intense gaze never leaves the Doctor, clearly assessing and contemplating whether or not he poses a threat.

The stranger exhales heavily through his nose, pausing before speaking cautiously. "Who are you?"

He flounders for a moment before he draws himself up. This, _this_ he is familiar with. He can do this. "I'm the Doctor. I'm here to help."

"Right," the man rolls the 'i' for a moment, distrust saturating his words. He adjusts his grip on the gun and casts him an accusing look, eyes narrowing to a squint. "You been following us?"

Frowning in confusion, and not without a touch of trepidation, the Doctor shakes his head vehemently. "No, absolutely not!"

"Hmm," the man regards him, his jaw clenching. "You're not from around here."

The Doctor gives a half-hearted smile. His 'accent' is distinct in some areas more than others, especially in North America, but it never fails to amuse him when someone (because there is always one) openly ruminates on his foreign origins. No matter the variation of such a comment, they have no idea how accurate an observation it is. Foreign indeed. "What gave it away?"

The man casually gestures with his weapon, which unnerves him. "You're wearing clean clothes. _You're_ clean."

"I, what?" He blinks and involuntarily glances down at himself, even though he knows the absolute truth in that statement. He looks at his clothing, at the complete lack of frayed or stained threads that he's seen on every person (even those in relatively good conditions). He isn't _Raggedy _enough. Such details are the badges of survival that these humans bear, that whisper of past brushes with death; such desperation and tenacity takes a visible toll. The Doctor realizes then that he doesn't carry those badges, those visible markers; he hasn't earned them – and it _shows_. Oh, does it _show_.

As a spark of wonder hits him, and the Doctor can't help but give a genuine smile – the first in _much_ too long – to the armed man. It's such a simple truth, his pristine appearance, that sets him apart with a clear message: _not a survivor, not one of you._

He's mildly surprised that no one has truly noticed until now. "Oh, you're a _clever_ little duckling, aren't you?"

This is the wrong thing to say.

He sees the suspicion rising in the stranger's eyes, shoulders tensing and grip tightening on the despicable weapon... the Doctor wipes the proud smile off his face, berating himself for allowing his love of humans to cloud his judgement, for forgetting _where_ he is, forgetting what the world is _reduced_ to, what his question would _sound like_ in this environment –

"Oh no, no, _no_, I didn't –"

"Turn around," the stranger lifts his gun, grim determination lining his stance and expression.

The Doctor hesitates, unwilling to turn his back and welcome the relief of darkness. It can't be his time, not yet, _he only wants to help_. Lifting his hands higher in a clear sign of peace (he hopes), he makes one last attempt to sway the man. "Wait, _wait_!" the Time Lord exclaims, unable to hide his distress. "Please, just - just _listen_ for a moment, alright? Let's not do anything_ rash_."

"Turn. Around."

His hearts beat faster, as if building up to a climax, and he feels more light-headed than usual. He senses death looming over him. Panic settles in. "Don't do this. Please,_ don't_. I can help you; give you food, tools, and shelter. Please, just give me a chance. _Let me_ _help you_."

An undecipherable look flickers over stranger's expression, passing much too quickly. After a few tense moments, the gun is lowered. The Doctor senses that he's escaped the inevitable, yet again.

"If you try anything – _anything_ – I will kill you. C'mon."

Absurdly relieved, the Doctor simply nods.

They walk together, though not quite close enough to reach out and touch the other. The Doctor knows this is deliberate, on the human's part – a precaution. However, it isn't long before the stranger motions for him to stop, stilling in alarm and glancing around. He strains to listen, to catch what has the human on guard, and barely hears the chilling sound of lifeless moans. It sounds like a horde.

"Shit," the man mutters, reflexively tensing and sprinting in the opposite direction.

Properly frightened, the Doctor follows after him.

And they _run_.

What follows is a rush, heightened senses making the forest seem more ominous – especially when animated corpses begin emerging from within its depths. They seem to be pouring from every direction, impossibly so, which forces them to deviate from the stranger's original destination, wherever that may be. A particularly close call – with a corpse latching onto the sleeve of his shirt – leaves the Doctor breathless and blank-minded by deep-rooted terror. He's seen what these unnatural beings are capable of doing to a person. He knows what follows – the ripping and tearing, the sheer depravity. Heedless of the victim's cries of horror and unspeakable torment that accompany the act of being eaten alive, the undead seem compelled to feast on the flesh of the living at all costs.

With this gruesome image in mind, he manages to push away the corpse and sets off at a quicker, more frantic, pace than before.

He doesn't see the other human, but he hears gunshots and shouts.

Hoping the man isn't harmed, and suppressing the stubborn swell of guilt for not keeping a closer eye on him, the Doctor adjusts his course toward the sound of conflict. There isn't much he can do to fight against the relentless horde, but the Doctor never leaves anyone behind if he can help it – especially not these humans, on this Earth. Not here, not now.

He manages to dodge the fatal grasps of the undead as he runs back, back to stand with the human who'd pointed a weapon at him not five minutes earlier.

_Call me a fool, but I still love the human race_, the Doctor thinks to himself. _Even though love may, in fact, be blind_.

He only has enough time for such sentiments to sink in, to provide a wry sense of somewhat-paternal fondness, before he catches a blur of movement in the corner of his eye. He is tackled from the side, the momentum of his attacker pulling them both down, and his neck hooks from the force of it. Following his body, his head swings in an incredibly rapid arch toward the ground and cracks against something impossibly hard, drawing a painful shriek from the Doctor. He feels a hot wetness trailing down his temple, as well as a frighteningly numbing fuzziness, which he fervently attempts to push aside. _There is danger here_, his mind screams, _stop laying about and_ run!

But then there's a loud shot, close enough to leave a ringing in his ears, and something slumps lifelessly on top of him. He barely notices when the weight disappears, only that his fears go with it.

Conflicted murmurs and impatient remarks surround him. It's enough to calm his strained nerves.

"Back in a mo'," he manages to mumble, uncertain if anyone hears.

Then, the world goes dark.

* * *

_Not until his dying breath._

* * *

He doesn't expect to wake up. But he does.

Laying on something soft, he becomes uncomfortably aware of the mildly painful throbbing on the side of his skull – no doubt the source of his unconsciousness and current disorientation. Cautiously bringing up his free hand to feel for the wound, noting the rubbery feel of his limbs, the Doctor is surprised to encounter a bandage. Somewhat mollified that he's safe, he takes a moment to push past the faint confusion haunting his mind. It doesn't help that, somewhere off in the distance, he hears a group of people having a rather heated discussion.

The Doctor groans and tries to move his slumped form, only to find himself a _bit_ restrained. Suddenly alarmed, his eyes snap open and dart around to observe his surroundings – it's rather dark, yet he can still see that he's been placed in a small room. More importantly, someone has handcuffed one of his hands to the frame of a bunk-bed (yet another reminder that he stubbornly pushes away). Quickly testing the strength of the restraints, the Doctor doesn't delay in patting his pockets for his sonic... only to find it missing. _Correction_, his mind amends unhelpfully, _taken_.

"Of course," he sighs despondently, flopping backwards onto the bed. As he stares up at the wooden framework, he reluctantly resolves to wait for his captors.

It isn't long. In fact, it only takes a few seconds.

"Well, I didn't expect you to give up that quickly."

The Doctor jumps at the sound of the female voice, a startled "Oh!" escaping him as he flails momentarily, and sits up once more. He searches the room again, this time with eyes somewhat adjusted to the dimness, and finds an indistinct figure seated in the corner. "I'm sorry?" he directs his response towards the unknown woman.

"I just thought you'd try a little harder to escape, is all," he hears some rustling as she speaks.

"Oh. Right," the Doctor responds intelligently. He isn't sure what else to say.

A brief, awkward-filled silence follows before the woman speaks up, soft and kind. "What's your name?"

"I'm the Doctor."

"That's it?"

He ignores the inquiry in favor of his own. "What's _your_ name, if I may ask?"

"Carol."

"Well, I regret meeting under such circumstances, Carol, but it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Likewise," she responds wryly. After a pause, she continues, "How do you feel? You hit your head pretty hard back there."

The Doctor takes a moment to evaluate himself. "No lasting damage, as far as I can tell," he smiles self-deprecatingly, staring down at his hands. "I've always had a bit of a thick skull, I suppose."

"Oh, now _there's_ a story."

"Quite a few, actually."

"Feel like sharing?" Carol prods lightly, not quite concealing a steely undertone.

It has the Doctor shifting uneasily, the tug of the handcuffs acutely remind him of his inability to escape. "No... not particularly. What happened in the forest?"

She drops the subject easily, humming in thought. "Just a pack of walkers roamin' around – took us all by surprise. We came by just in time to see Rick gun down the walker that attacked you."

A dull throb of dismay leaves him nauseous, the memory of being blindsided by a corpse returning all too easily. If that man, Rick, hadn't been there... the Doctor sternly pulls himself together, shifting his focus on a particular tidbit. "Rick? Is he the man I met in the forest?"

"That'd be him."

The Doctor closes his eyes, gratitude washing over him. "Given the opportunity, I'll return the favor."

"You'll excuse me if I take that with a grain of salt."

Unfamiliar with the idiom, he frowns. "Pardon?"

He hears another rustle of movement – although his eyes have adjusted to the relative darkness, he still can't quite make out Carol's features – accompanied by a soft, if tremulous, sigh. By the world-weary sound of it, the Doctor imagines that she's a bit aged. "Look, I don't know you. _We_ don't know you. Strangers are the biggest threat this rotten world has to offer – forget about walkers, they're simple and predictable monsters. But strangers... that's a whole 'nother ballgame. New monsters; potentially unpredictable in the worst ways."

The Doctor understands, and finds himself nodding in agreement. It hurts to admit, sends a sharp pang in the center of his hearts, that he's seen what humans are capable of once they reach a certain point – the _breaking_ point. Still, he can't quite smother the seed of hope that grows within, that continues to grow whenever he manages to find good people. Like Carol. The thought brings a tentative smile to his face. "Yes, a valid point. But what of you? You don't seem –"

"Oh no, I'm no saint," she interrupts with a humorless chuckle.

"I'm sure you've made your share of mistakes, as have I, but that doesn't mean you're like _them_. You're not a monster."

Carol replies quietly. "You'd be surprised."

Despite being unable to observe her, the Doctor senses that the woman is more decent than many others he's come across. Trying to convince her of that, his tone is buoyant and coaxing. "Well, I've held onto a shred of hope for humanity. Good people have endured this world; good people like you –"

"No," she interrupts more coldly this time, a sort of grim acceptance lining her words. "In a world like this, you don't get this far by being _good_ – you get this far by getting your hands dirty," there is a soft grunt as Carol rises to her feet, and he blindly keeps track of her approach by the sound of her voice, which only serves to send chills down his spine. "In a world like this, you have to be strong and willing to do things you didn't think you could do. I've done enough to be considered a monster, things I _don't_ regret, just like anyone else you'd meet out there. So," Carol finally emerges into the visible spectrum and – just as grey and wrinkled as he expects – moves to lean against the wall near the bunk-bed. She frowns at him. "Why aren't _you_? Why aren't you like the rest of us?"

The Doctor prepares to shrug it off, but the aged woman simply raises a hand to stop him. "Don't. I can see it. You're... different."

He marvels at how perceptive she is, much like the other man, and does nothing to prevent the swell of pride and sorrow that burns behind his eyes. _They are so very brilliant_. "You're right, of course. If you'd allow me the opportunity, I'll explain myself gladly. There's plenty to be said – much, I believe, that the rest of your group should hear."

"Any chance you could condense it for me?"

"I'm afraid not."

Carol gives him an unreadable look before she shrugs, turning to exit the room. "Okey-dokey." Just as she reaches the door, she pauses and tosses a glance over her shoulder. "By the way, _Doctor_," she drawls his name, containing a hint of detached _resentment_ of all things, "Do you have a heart condition?"

The mention of his hearts has anxiety clawing at him. She wouldn't ask such a specific question without reason. Thus, it would be pointless to lie. "No, I don't."

"Well, that's strange. While you were out earlier, I performed a basic examination – which includes taking your pulse. Seemed a bit irregular," she comments, raising a delicate eyebrow at him. With that, Carol turns the handle and closes the door behind her.

Sighing at her departure, the Doctor knows that the subject will come up again at some point. It does little to bother him, since he intends to disclose everything about himself, alien origins and all. 'The whole truth and nothing but the truth,' as they say.

The only challenge is convincing them to believe him, his _intentions_, when so many others simply dismiss it.

He prepares himself for the imminent conversation – _interrogation_, his mind whispers – all the while listening attentively to the debate brewing beyond his prison door.


	3. Deliverance

Part 3 of 3:

**Deliverance**

* * *

_For all the Doctor's efforts..._

* * *

He tries not to eavesdrop too much.

Instead, the Doctor focuses his attention on what he should say. What he _needs_ to say.

While he's not been _too_ naive to implicitly place his faith in just anyone – to blind himself to the realities of this world, as Carol pointed out – he _still_ fervently places his hope in the belief that these particular humans are inherently good. That they will _listen_. For his own sake, he can't bear to think otherwise.

With such thoughts to keep him company, he waits anxiously.

(It seems a recurring theme as of late, having to _wait_.)

His nerves make the minutes seem to pass more quickly than he prefers because, when the rumbling murmur outside his door cuts off, the Doctor feels as though it's too soon – _please, not yet_. He stares at the door, hearts fluttering almost painfully as he desperately attempts to compose himself. It doesn't help that the continuing silence proves more eerie than he cares to admit, makes him worry about what must be going on behind that door, and his hope threatens to crumble into uncertainty. Doubt becomes a poisonous, slithering thing that infects his mentality – planting seeds of paranoia that make him wonder if his captors will simply leave him to rot, or _worse_ – when the door is abruptly pulled open.

So pensive is he, the Doctor jumps at the movement. Not a moment later, three people enter. He suspects that their group is much larger than this, but he wisely keeps such thoughts to himself.

He recognizes the first as the man he met in the forest, Rick, and the other two are unfamiliar: a dark-skinned woman, who stands slightly behind Rick, and another squinty-eyed man, who quickly takes a place against the door they'd just entered through. Momentarily overlooking what that particular action means for him, he pays close attention to the unusual weapons they carry. Namely, the katana and a crossbow.

The atmosphere is strained, amplified by the tenseness of their stances as they stare him down with varying degrees of wariness, distrust, and indifference. Surprisingly, it is the last emotion that concerns him – apathy makes room for more appalling outcomes.

"So, _Doctor_," Rick, the apparent leader of this group, scoffs his name in a manner that sends a chill down his spine. The Doctor doesn't even feel comfortable enough to protest, not with the downright hostile glance that man pins him with. "Should we be expecting anyone to come after us?"

_Do you have a group?_, is the unspoken question.

"No, no, nothing of the sort," he hurries to reassure them. He raises his hands in a pacifying gesture, ignoring the jingle of the handcuffs, and nervously attempts to steady his voice. "I'm traveling alone," he tries for a smile, but he knows it comes across as a pitiful grimace.

They all share a glance, wordlessly coming to some sort of conclusion before Rick addresses him once more.

"Let's say we believe that," the man drawls, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes. He waves a hand to the side, his voice gradually taking on a rougher quality as he speaks. "And let's say you actually _do_ want to help us – to _befriend_ us."

So they've questioned the boy, the Doctor thinks to himself. Hoping that this will help him, he opens his mouth to make his practiced offer –

– and quails in shock, feeling his throat close up, when Rick's disposition changes. It's a subtle thing – the glint in his cold gaze gaining a foreboding look as he stares down at him like one would a pest, the way his hand twitches toward his sidearm, the way he seems to absolutely _loom_ over him, muscles tense – the man visibly morphs into something darker. It's a pale shadow against those humans without morals, those _less than_ human, those _living_ monsters – it hasn't quite reached that point but, it's _there_, it's _festering_ – and he feels a chill settle in his chest. Dear Rassilon, _this can't be happening_.

The human leans down imperceptibly, a menacing figure if he ever saw one, and all he can think is _not yet_.

"You want to be friends?"

_Not yet._

"You want to help?"

_Please, not yet._

"Why should we _let_ you?"

The Doctor forgets how to breathe. He fears that he may have horribly misjudged these humans. Oh, does he _fear_.

But then, there's movement, and –

"Rick," the woman rebukes sharply, if quietly, frustration lining her hard expression. Their leader doesn't spare a glance towards her, but he _does_ seem to pause and ultimately – _thankfully_ – the lurking beast retreats, leaving behind a hardened man who takes several steps back. He's beyond relieved when the sword-wielding woman steps in place as interrogator, shooting a somewhat agitated look at her leader, and turns to the shaken Time Lord with a stern wariness that belies the budding hope in her eyes. "Were you the one following us? Did you leave those water bottles in the road?"

Confused, and panting, he shakes his head. "No. On _both_ accounts."

Something like disappointment surfaces before it disappears with a stiff nod. "Then how do you want to help us? How can we trust you?"

The following silence is rife with suspense.

Taking a breath, the Doctor begins.

"I doubt you'll trust me so easily, but... I have the means to provide your entire group, however many of you there are, with the supplies and tools necessary to survive. I don't expect anything in return – other than my safety, of course. _And_," the Doctor is quick to add, spotting their rapidly growing disbelief and suspicion, "You are within your rights to deny this offer, as much as I urge _against_ just that. My purpose is to provide. Nothing less."

"Bullshit," the squinty-eyed man suddenly scoffs from his place on the door. When the man realizes that all eyes are focused on him, he adjusts the crossbow on his back and gruffly explains, "Nothin's free."

"That's not the only issue here," Rick deadpans, fixing him with a doubtful stare. The Doctor looks away. "He could be lying. Trying to lead us into a trap."

"Again," the woman nods, clearly in agreement with her comrades. "How can we _trust_ you?"

The Doctor knows that this is it. All or nothing, as they say.

"Alright," he exhales, briefly closing his eyes. "Right. First off – I'm going to say quite a few things that seem unbelievable. You're going to want to stop me, perhaps even demand for the truth, but I assure you that _this is it_. If you'll allow me to say what I need to say, I'll leave it to you to decide."

When he hears no objections, the Doctor opens his eyes.

"I am the Doctor. I am _not_ human. I am an alien from a planet called Gallifrey. I am a Time Lord. I travel through space and time in a blue police box, and I want to save the human race from extinction."

* * *

_For all his love..._

* * *

They think he's insane.

"You really 'spect us to believe that shit?" is the elegant response from the squinty-eyed man, coming as more of a growl than anything.

The dark-skinned woman shakes her head, dreadlocks swaying with the movement.

Rick clenches his jaw, occasionally running a hand through his graying hair.

"It's the truth," the Doctor insists, eyes flitting between all three of them. He can see that there's not much left he can say to convince them, but he goes on – he can't leave them without giving them his full effort. "If you'll allow me to _show_ you –"

"No," Rick whips around with a burning glare. "_No_."

"You're making a mistake," the old Time Lord returns just as fiercely, unwilling to back down. "I'm not a threat to you, to _any_ of you – you must have noticed by now! I don't even carry weapons with me!"

Another tense silence falls, following his proclamation.

They all regard him with unreadable expressions, though their prolonged stillness speaks of their reluctance to simply brush him off. He takes advantage of that, careful not to be too insistent.

"Just – just _consider_ it, please. Don't let his world rob you of hope."

The Doctor looks at each of them – even Rick, despite his misgivings – and chooses to linger on the woman. Out of the three, she appears to be more willing to accept his earnestness.

"Hope," Rick suddenly drawls, gaining the attention of his comrades. Shaking his head, the man crosses his arms and a shadow appears to fall over him. The look on his face is nothing less than heartbreaking, and it is _then_ that the Doctor knows that this man is not beyond saving. "We don't have the luxury."

Despite himself, he can't come up with an argument against that.

"Can't trust 'im," the crossbow-wielder grumbles, but there is sadness in his eyes, _compassion_. He vaguely gestures to his temple. "Ain't in a right mind."

"Could be that you _do_ want to help us," the woman addresses the Doctor, lightly resting her hand on her weapon, steadfastly keeping her gaze on the ground. "But everything else you say doesn't seem right."

"Yeah," Rick drawls in agreement, giving him a sideways glance. "Seems insane enough to try and lure anyone who'll listen."

It sounds like the man is speaking from experience, if their suddenly dark looks are anything to go by, and the Doctor doesn't appreciate the implications behind it. He feels adrenaline coursing through him, nostrils flaring as he meets their hardened expressions with one of his own. He's a _Time Lord_, for Gallifrey's sake – a being old enough to witness _countless_ things beyond their comprehension. It's time enough that he reminds himself of that, and stops cowering under the influence of children. No matter how frightening they appear to be, it does not – _cannot_ – compare to his own lurking darkness.

The Doctor sees the moment when they notice the shift – when they understand that he's _different_. They cradle their weapons more intently, coiling in preparation for a fight that will never occur, but he ignores it. And, for once, he isn't afraid.

"I wouldn't," the Doctor addresses Rick's accusation with quiet indignation, straightening from the authority of his own statement. If the humans are surprised by his change in disposition, they're skilled enough to veil it. "My word is all I have at the moment but, for what it's worth, I _swear _to you that I'm not the sort to go around tricking people. Not about this. _Never _about_ this_."

They're still unsure, swaying between what their experiences have taught them and what their hearts are telling them, because whatever decision they come to won't just affect themselves. It's a battle he's all too familiar with, and he feels an immense sorrow beginning to settle when Rick sighs heavily – a wretched sight. It's plain to see his struggle in the shakes of his head and how he all but paces a hole into the ground. The other man isn't much better off, clearly unconvinced.

He turns to the woman next, _last_, imploring her to understand, but she regards him with an equally dubious expression.

They don't believe him. They _can't_.

His resolve crumbles a bit. Resignation begins creeping in.

"My purpose is to provide," he repeats the sadly familiar words as they turn to ash on his tongue, bitterly singed by his failure. It wouldn't be the first time, but it burns all the same. "There are enough horrors out there without _me_ adding to it, which I'd _never_ do. And I won't just stand by while the world rots," the Doctor looks down at his hands, watching them tremble as his strength leaves him. "Even if – even if it_ kills_ me. Even after each failed venture. Even after _this_. I simply _refuse_ to stand idle when I can _do_ something. I _refuse_."

"That isn't enough," Rick snaps harshly. He can hear the conflict in his voice – as if the man wants to believe it, wants to believe that he's not talking to a raving lunatic – but the man, and his comrades, have been burned one too many times. Like many others, it's clear that they are so inured to false promises of safety that they aren't capable of recognizing a genuine one. He can't blame them for not trusting him. It's a difficult decision. Near impossible.

(His hearts are perpetually in a sorry state, broken beyond repair.)

He peeks up at them from under his fringe, feeling more vulnerable and exhausted now than he had during his near-death experience in the forest. It's the same for every other group that refused to budge. "I won't force you. If you truly don't accept my offer, then I respectfully request that you allow me to leave as I arrived. Unarmed and unharmed."

They tentatively agree to his terms, not without reservations, still closely watching him for any hint of deception.

He lets them see his anguish.

It only takes a few moments for them to confer with each other, and with someone else beyond the door, before they move toward him to release him. Once they reassure him that they'll be returning his sonic after they reach their destination, the Doctor slips into a cooperative daze. He distantly notes how Rick keeps his firearm up, both as a clear warning to stay compliant and as a supposed deterrent for hasty attempts. It's unneeded.

The Doctor allows them to maneuver him as they wish, following their firm directions and staring at the ground the entire time.

Just as they're leading him out of his makeshift cell, coming upon a larger room, he instinctively glances up to observe his surroundings. He catches sight of a rather large group, at least ten people, and, just there, he sees –

By Rassilon, he _sees_ –

A baby.

Less than a year old, by his approximation.

The Doctor seizes up, ignoring the sharp commands to keep moving – they sound tinny, besides, ringing in his ear like a far-off buzz – because all of his attention narrows in on the infant, staring back at him with wide, clear blue eyes.

"_Stranger look funny_," she gurgles curiously, wriggling in her caretaker's arms, and extends one pudgy hand towards him. "_Play?_"

Paternal warmth fills his chest, hearts fluttering at the sheer innocence –

– and then he finds himself being torn away by a furious Rick, aiming a gun between his eyes. "_I won't tell you again_."

He didn't hear what was said before, but the Doctor dismisses it in favor of confronting this new development. Resisting the insistent tugs of the people herding him, he feels a cloying desperation clawing at his throat, urging the words out of him. "Wait, wait – you never said there was a _baby_."

Rick just about snarls in warning, lip curling. "It doesn't change things."

"It _does_," he implores, wild-eyed. He feels like something is possessing him, feels like his body and mind are out of sync when he impulsively decides to impart extremely personal information about himself – the kind of information he hasn't even shared with most, if not all, of his companions. Not even _River_. "I-I know what it's like, Rick. I know you've experienced loss before, and for that I'm _truly_ sorry, but it _does_ _not_ compare to suffering the death of your child – let me spare you from it. Please, _please_ accept my offer."

For a moment, he thinks Rick will _listen_, but the man's eyes take on a hard edge.

The edge of a protective father.

"Move."

He can't let this infant grow up in a world like this, if she even _gets_ the chance to grow up.

"No, no, no, wait –" the Doctor gasps, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. He feels his stomach clench as he makes a decision, steeling himself. "It _does_ change things. Please forgive me. I-I'm sorry. I'm _so_ sorry."

Breathing heavily, he latches on to Rick –

Multiple hands are on him –

People are shouting, trying to pull him away –

He sees Rick's eyes widen, heat and righteous fury swirling madly. "_Don't_ –"

The Doctor doesn't wait for him to finish. This will be his last attempt, in one manner or another.

Rearing his head backwards, he quickly brings it forward again to collide with Rick's in an outwardly savage headbutt – _ignore the pain, focus, focus, **focus**_ – and in that brief moment of contact, the Time Lord hurriedly transfers as much relevant knowledge and memory as he's able. As the other surrounding humans clamor and growl, successfully pulling him off, he hopes it'll be enough.

* * *

_For all his hopes..._

* * *

Someone punches him.

The Doctor's head snaps to the left, blood filling his mouth, and he scrambles away from his attacker.

"Wait, _wait_."

He can barely hear the call to stop – can barely hear himself _think_– his head is pounding and white noise dominates most of the hearing in his right ear. Whoever hit him has an incredible amount of raw power, he observes faintly as his disorientation slowly begins to ebb away. He hopes they don't punch him again; he doesn't know how much more damage his thick skull can take.

After a moment of carefully _not moving_, the Doctor finally returns to the sight and sound of an upset baby, crying – _"No fight! No angry! No!"_ – of people trying to bounce her, to calm her down with quiet words and desperate shushes, but that isn't right, they don't _know_ -

"You should rock her," he manages to gasp out, cradling at his aching jaw. "Gently, rock her gently, and tell her – tell her that _no one's_ angry."

There's a heavy pause, before an exhausted-sounding Rick breaks it with a sigh, nodding curtly.

The Doctor watches as the boy he'd met in the forest follows his instructions, warily keeping an eye on him as he rocks the baby girl – no, his _family_, his _sister_ – whispering lowly and cautiously moving her from side to side. The infant quickly settles down.

Once the commotion dies down, the Doctor realizes that several firearms are aimed at him (he feels nauseous when he spots Carol near the front line, calmly pointing a sleek handgun at his forehead). They all but dare him to make another move towards their leader.

He stills.

Rick makes his way over, flanked by the same two people from his cell, with an unreadable expression on his face.

"You wanna explain what that was?"

The Doctor can visibly see the strain he'd unintentionally inflicted on the poor man, deep lines of bemusement and sorrow etched onto his face, and he knows that Rick is still trying to assimilate the new information. He thanks Rassilon that the mind transfer seems to have gone favorably, but it will have been for nothing if he can't convince the man of his authenticity.

"Will you hear me?"

It comes out more cross than he means, like a parent scolding a child.

Rick notices, unsurprisingly bristling at the perceived condescension, and clenches his jaw. "Depends on what you have to say."

The truth is all he has left, for all the good it's worth, but the Doctor is nothing if not persistent.

So he tells them.

He studies the group as he explains his telepathy, garnering looks ranging from impatience to pity, and, yet again, it's clear they think he's either lying or gone mad. It's to be expected, really, so the Doctor despairs when he feels a wave of frustration clawing around inside his chest, unjustly demanding that these people simply listen. It's unfair to think they'd so readily go against ingrained instincts - instincts which undoubtedly keeps them alive.

Taking a deep breath, the Doctor silently reprimands himself and allows their disbelief to wash over him. They don't know any better. They can't, in the face of their truly horrifying experiences.

While the group as a whole appears thoroughly unconvinced, there's a glimmer of consideration in Rick's eye. The Doctor latches onto it.

"We're not that different, you and I," he begins, growing uneasy at the sudden silence following his words, but he refuses to cower under the intensity of their scrutiny. He raises his head. "You have something precious that you want to protect - your family - and you'd go to incredible lengths to ensure their safety," a small, wry smile lifts his lips and he locks gazes with Rick. "You have done, if I'm not mistaken."

"What's your point?" a brown-skinned woman snaps from the edge of the group, expression cold and suspicious.

"I was getting to that," the Doctor sighs, adjusting his bow tie. Remarkably, it was still neatly tied. "My _point_ is, that's exactly why I'm here. As hard as it may be to believe, the entirety of the human race is precious to me - so I'm doing everything in my power to save those who will allow me. And here we are."

"Here we are," Rick agrees, though his tone makes it sound like an ominous thing.

They stare each other down, at some sort of impasse.

Until the tension breaks with the quiet sound of a babbling child. "_Hungry,_" the infant complains, wiggling for attention.

"She's hungry," the Doctor translates dutifully, smiling at the sight.

"How do you know?"

This time he bends the truth, tells Rick that he's had experience with children, which is true, instead of saying that he understands Babblespeak, which is also true. Saddening though it may be, he silently admits that telling them the whole truth in this instance would be pointless - they already have enough cause to dismiss him as a lunatic, from their standpoint. But seeing the baby only reminds him of what's at stake here, and the Doctor is that much more determined to save this particular group of humans.

As if they sense he has more to say, they watch him closely as he makes another bid for their consideration.

"Look, I know it isn't fair to ask for your trust, after all that you've suffered. Keep your weapons aimed at me, keep me handcuffed, but please, _please_, just give me a chance to show you," the Doctor tries to entreat them gently, yet desperation colors his tone. The baby has _changed things_. He doesn't think he can walk away from this. "I can't save the world, but I can save a few people. As _many_ as I can."

They seem less certain after that, murmuring among themselves and casting him thoughtful looks.

One of their members, an Eastern-looking young man, approaches Rick and speaks lowly. Their conversation is short but meaningful, if their expression are anything to go by, and the Doctor tries to keep his hope aloft on the fact that Rick holsters his weapon.

Of course, no one else has, so it could mean nothing.

When their leader simply crouches in front of him with a calculating look, he isn't sure what will come next. Some members of the group seem disgruntled, especially the woman who'd snapped earlier, but they largely seem to be in agreement.

"How many walkers have you killed?"

The question startles him, as it was likely meant to, and he blinks back to frown at the man in front of him. "You know the answer."

Rick persists. "How many?"

"None."

"How many people have you killed?"

The Doctor lowers his gaze. "You know that one, as well."

There's an odd expression on Rick's face, but the man doesn't budge. "Just answer the question. How many?"

"Directly, no one. Indirectly - I don't know."

"Why?"

"I was only trying to do the right thing."

Several seem skeptical to accept his response, but they don't question him further.

* * *

_Sometimes..._

* * *

They're finally beginning to listen.

"I'm gonna be straight with you," a ginger-haired man, who introduces himself as Sergeant Abraham Ford and as his glorified keeper, says plainly. "We have fought and bought our right to eat, sleep, and shit in an environment that ain't exactly conducive for us to practice said rights. That being said, we will not hesitate to remove anyone or anything that threatens our chances of survival. Got it?"

"Of course. I understand completely."

The Doctor holds Abraham's hard gaze steadily, doing his best to convey sincerity.

After a beat, the other man nods, mouth ticking up wryly. "Sure you do."

He doesn't have time to ask what the man means by that because Rick approaches them, gesturing for them to join the rest of the group to work out an arrangement.

They tentatively agree to follow him back to his ship, though not without sufficient threats against his life. He accepts their terms - and perhaps it speaks of his state of mind that he's satisfied by their thoroughness - allows them as much of their peace of mind as he can offer in this situation, and he isn't bothered by it. The Doctor can't remember a time he's ever been so happy to be held captive (he learns that they've settled in one of many abandoned neighborhoods).

He can't help but admire the way humans rally together. How they go to such lengths to protect those they've come to care for, so willing to sacrifice their lives for each other - all for the chance to defend their patchwork family. _This_ is what he wants to save.

Only a few decide to go with him while the rest remain in a separate location (which is smart, they're scouting a potential threat). He's introduced to a small band of people, some he recognizes - Daryl, Sasha, Glenn, Rosita, Abraham, and Rick - who will accompany him.

He leads them through the forest, nearly vibrating with excitement as they steadily make their way to the TARDIS. It's a foolish thing, to get so absorbed in his enthusiasm, but he simply can't help himself. He can't be bothered to note how the others are getting increasingly twitchy and paranoid as time passes, can't be bothered to worry about their hushed whispers. No, he can't be bothered at all - not when he catches a glimpse of royal blue just beyond the foliage.

"There!" he exclaims, perhaps a bit more loudly than is wise.

He surges ahead of the group, dismissing the warnings, and runs back to the feeling of _home_.

He nearly cries at the sight of her.

When the group catches up, they are predictably disbelieving of the blue box in the middle of the forest, and are throwing him looks that clearly spell out their thoughts (they think he's a madman now, instead of someone with malicious intent - and that is a preferable notion, in his opinion). He runs up to his ship and leans his forehead against it, hands tied behind his back, and whispers to his beloved ship.

"I've brought some more refugees, dear. Dazzle them, won't you?"

He senses a hum of approval.

The doors swing open, but the inside is out of sight from the group. He gestures for them to take a look, wide grin in place.

Rick decides to be the first, much to the archer's discontent, bringing his weapon up in caution. The Doctor doesn't mind, so long as he doesn't shoot his ship, and keeps his gaze fixed on the other man's expression. He wants to see the moment of realization.

He isn't disappointed.

The man's eyes widen and his lips part slightly, as if to say something, but no words come out. He shakes his head minutely and stumbles backwards a bit, unresponsive to the of concern from his group as they rush up to him. The Doctor watches, content, as they all turn to look inside his ship (which shines just a bit brighter than usual, greeting their guests warmly).

They are astonished yet afraid to board his ship, so the Doctor goes in first. He manages to bounce around and gesture with a long-buried enthusiasm, though probably not as effective with restraints, tossing information about his TARDIS out too quickly for the humans to _really_ understand. Once the shock fades, they enter and tentatively touch the surfaces on his ship, as if they can't quite believe what they're seeing. Silently, one of the group members, Daryl, approaches to un-cuff him and he thanks the man gently, rubbing at his wrists.

Finally, the Doctor hears the words he's been waiting for.

"It's... _how_ is it bigger on the inside?"

He gleefully re-explains the origins of his ship, as well as himself. He tells them the truth and, this time, they_ listen_. They also ask questions. Some are more bitter than others.

"Have you done this before?"

"How many have you helped?"

"Who's still out there?"

"If this is a time machine, can't you go back to _stop_ this all from happening in the first place?"

"Why weren't you here from the start, to save us?"

It's somber and guilt-inducing, leaves him subdued, but he details the laws of the universe that even_ he_ must follow. He can tell that they're overwhelmed by the information, and that some don't agree with him, but they believe him. They do, he can tell.

Most of them decide to stay overnight - Sasha, Daryl, Glenn, and Rick - while the remaining two returns to the rest of their group to fill them in. Before they do, however, he urges them to take a few supplies (food, blankets, medicine). Still a bit dubious, yet grateful, they accept and begin the trek back before it gets dark. He tells them that they're welcome to a warm shower, a change of clothes, certain foodstuffs (he knows enough of human biology to know that their stomachs would be sensitive to what they ate), and a bed.

They still don't quite trust him because they don't understand his intentions (as they understand it, people don't do good things simply for the principle of it, not anymore), and the Doctor understands completely. He tells them that, although it makes him uncomfortable, they don't have to part with their weapons. They can even sleep in shifts, if it makes them more secure. As long as they don't harm him or his ship, they are welcome to establish any safety measures they deem necessary (not including bodily harm). They seem mildly surprised and satisfied by his assurances, though they still regard him warily. As they move about his ship, no one is ever without a partner; they guard each other.

The night is spent in relative peace. They ultimately do decide to sleep in shifts, to be safe. The Doctor tries chatting with them to help keep them awake (they are exhausted but still determined to protect each other) and ultimately slinks away when it becomes clear that they'd rather sit in silence.

The next morning, things are better. His TARDIS can sense their general hopefulness beginning to rise.

He is worried, however, when he sees the three of them having a rather serious-looking discussion after a simple breakfast. He allows them their privacy and moves on towards the console room, fiddling with bits and bobs until their leader approaches him. The man still looks haggard (he privately thinks that Rick looks _much_ older than he actually is) and begins an awkward conversation. This too, is familiar.

The Doctor smiles and waves his worries away. He understands.

Freshly showered, clothed, and fed, they decide to bring their entire group. When they arrive, they begin the process all over again. The day is filled with many tears of relief and well-founded suspicions, but the Doctor takes it all in stride. Yet, he can't help but wonder when they'll decide to leave, as all the others have. He doesn't think he can bear it, especially not with a baby in the mix. He really doesn't know what he'll do.

The next day, Rick approaches him again.

"We need to talk. _All_ of us."

He takes the group to the first door in the second hallway, which usually appears as a common area complete with a fireplace, comfortable couches, and plenty of bookcases.

"This reminds me of something out of Harry Potter," one of them muses, bringing a smile to the Doctor's face. After all, he _is_ a fan of J.K. Rowling.

There is plenty of room for everyone, so they sit and get down to business. The Doctor sorrowfully thinks that this is the moment where they ask him about where he can take them, or if he can help them find their Someone. He prepares himself.

Surprisingly, they ask if they can stay.

The Doctor is in shock. He simply sits there a moment, gaping. But most of all, he is unbelievably _relieved_. "Of course," he whispers hoarsely, feeling his throat tighten. "You lot would be the first to stay, but yes. _Of course_ you can stay."

It will not be easy, and there are several more things they need to address, but that doesn't matter. Not right now.

Some cry, others hug him, and a few remain seated, quietly accepting their new reality.

* * *

_Sometimes it is enough._

* * *

_The Doctor cannot save everyone, nonetheless, he can't help but try. _

_Even in the face of Death, the Doctor will never stop; not until his dying breath._

_For all the Doctor's efforts, for all his love, for all his hopes, sometimes... sometimes it is enough._

* * *

I realize the ending may seem abrupt, but I've tinkered with this chapter so much that I would never get it done if I don't publish it now. That being said, my eyes are officially numb to this installment - if you spot any errors, please point them out.

Also, there may _possibly_ be an epilogue after this. But don't count on it. Unless you want to wait, like, five years.

Jokes aside, shout out to those who actually waited for this chapter for an _ungodly_ amount of time. Seriously, thank you _so_ much for your patience.


End file.
